


To Keep London Safe

by moovelope



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-01
Updated: 2014-01-01
Packaged: 2018-01-07 00:39:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1113429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moovelope/pseuds/moovelope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John comes home one average evening, only to discover that someone has broken into his flat.  This was certainly not how he expected his Wednesday to go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Keep London Safe

**Author's Note:**

> Thought I'd get my return fic finished before it got entirely jossed. Here's to Sherlock season 3: the end of one fanfiction era and the start of a new one.

For John Watson it was an average day.  He had gone to work, he had gone to the pub with his friends, he was still stone cold sober but he managed to have a good time.  He was also returning to a small, empty flat; one which would never feel like home but was comfortable enough.

It would have been a completely normal day, except for the glaringly obvious reason that it wasn't.  That reason being: it was the day that his best friend came back from the grave.

Now John, of course, was not yet aware of this fact.  He was only aware of the routine ride up the elevator (he had to spend the extra money for a building that had one, his cane had made it difficult to maneuver stairs) the short walk down the hall, the turn of keys into the door.  He was hanging his coat on a hook in the small entrance when ordinary stops dead in its tracks.

He could see from the small entrance area that the light in his kitchenette was on.  John never left that light on while he was out.

He couldn’t see into the kitchen from this angle, but no shadows played on the furniture in the tiny combined living room and dining room area. Perhaps the perpetrator was hiding in his bedroom or the bathroom therein. Or maybe they had already left.

All these thoughts raced through his mind as he flattened himself against the wall.  Perhaps he should call the police.  He didn’t have any weapons on him and he might be attacked from behind if he attempted to grab a knife from the kitchen.  Except, he didn’t even know if the person was still there and he should bloody well check his own apartment before he called the cops.  He didn’t want to look like a nutter if the police didn’t find anything.

His heart pounded a steady beat in his ears, driving a wave of calm through his veins.  The man raised his cane in a defensive position and cautiously entered the flat, keeping his back to the kitchen.  He planned on checking out the bedroom when something shifted in the corner of his eye.  There was something on the couch; mostly obscured by shadow and not easily visible from the entryway.  He cursed himself for not noticing sooner.

In the dim light he could see there was a lump on the couch, person-shaped and motionless.  John held out the cane in front of him, ready to retaliate if the figure lunged for him.  He was still wary that there may be others in the flat, so he didn’t make a sound.  Silently, he reached behind him for the light, eyes trained on the person on the couch, hopefully oblivious to his presence.

The soft overhead light of the living room flickered on, not as stark as the kitchen glow, but enough to illuminate the person taking a kip on his sofa.

It was a man, curled up into a ball, yet still overtaking the whole seating arrangement. He was tall, with dark clothes and bright blonde hair except for where the roots were coming in and the face-

"Oh fuck," John whispered, suddenly needing his cane once more to prevent him from tipping over.  The adrenaline dropped out of his system in an instant and all he felt was the dizzy remains of his heart beating too fast.  He half leant on the cane and half propped himself up on the wall because his legs had turned to water because this _cannot be happening_.

Sherlock Holmes was on his couch.  Presumably alive.  Yes, there was the slight rise and fall of his chest.  Sherlock was alive.  On his couch. Breathing. And sleeping.

There were a number of things that John wanted to do at the moment.  Except his brain had slowed to a halt so he couldn’t think of them and his body was frozen so he wouldn't be able to perform these things if his mind had the decency to think of them in the first place.

So he just stood there, leaning against the wall and caught his breath. He realized, after a bit, that he was waiting for Sherlock to wake up, to _do_ something about being alive.  Surely he must have heard John open the door, or flick on the light.  But the dead man was dead to the world, it seemed.

He had a black eye, John realized after his heart had calmed down enough.  A fairly fresh one too.  He almost hadn't been able to see it, since it was on the eye tucked closer to the cushion.

John took a couple steps forward so he could get a better look.  Not only did Sherlock have a black eye, he looked exhausted and parched.  John glanced at the kitchen and wondered if Sherlock had been routing through there for food or something to drink.  Sherlock, actually, looked shattered.  His cheekbones were too prominent and his eyes were sunken in and darkened from sleep deprivation.  John wagered they were probably bloodshot.  The fingers curled up to the side of his face were outrageously thin as well.

Dear god, what had Sherlock gone through for the past three years?

John kneeled a little bit in front of the man, to get a closer look at his nails.  Stained yellow, most likely from a recent upswing in cigarette use.  He must have been smoking in different attire; however, John couldn't smell any cigarette smoke from where he knelt.  Now that he was at this lower angle, he could see a bit up Sherlock's sleeve.  There seemed to be a red stain down his arm.  Oh god, was he bleeding?  He could probably shift up the sleeve a bit and get a better look—

John discovered this was a bad idea as soon as his fingers came into contact with Sherlock's coat sleeve.  From a prone position on the couch Sherlock was now sitting up; gripping onto his arm with his right hand, and brandishing a knife with his left, the hand previously obscured underneath him as he slept.

John didn't dare move.  Instead he stared into Sherlock's eyes in brief shock.  Sherlock stared straight back, until John saw recognition flash across his face.  Sherlock blanched, grip loosening.

"John, you're—" he muttered as John quickly disarmed the man and flipped the knife closed.

Sherlock leaned back into the couch, viciously scrubbing his face with his hands.  The knuckles on his left were bruised beyond belief.  After a moment he pulled his hands away from his face and looked to John.  The bags under his bloodshot eyes were worse than John had ever seen them.  He waited for Sherlock to say something, but the man seemed to be at a loss for words.

“What—”

"I had thought you'd be here right after work,” Sherlock said, cutting him off.  He was silent for another moment.  His eyes slid from John’s face down to the hands in his own lap.  “Right after.  So I snuck in a bit before that, you have terrible security in this building, John.  You should get a few more deadbolts.  You didn't show up as soon as I thought and I mean, how was I to know you'd be out at the pub it's Wednesday you don't usually, you didn't usually, you know.  And so I sat down and I meant to be awake, idiot, idiot, god, but I haven't slept for the past six days so I guess that caught up to me finally and why are you _smiling_?" Sherlock finished with a confused accusation.

John hadn’t realized that a smile had crept onto his face.  He coughed a bit to rid himself of it.  "You were rambling.  Horribly.”

Sherlock looked horrified.

"I am, aren't I?  This wasn't supposed to go this way at all; why did I fall asleep?" he groaned, smacking himself in the forehead.  He was doing a lot of wild gesticulating, which sometimes happened when the man was far past exhausted.

"So, you're alive, then," John said.  Sherlock nodded.  "Been alive this whole time."

“Well for me to be alive now I'd obviously have had to been alive the entire time.  Really, John," he chided.

"I can't believe it.  You pulled an Irene Adler."

"I _what_?  Oh, faked my own death, but how did you?  Oh, wait yes.  Yes, you're right," Sherlock muttered incoherently.

"You can barely stay awake, can you?" John asked, straightening up to relieve the pressure on his legs.  Sherlock glared at him.

"I am wide awake and I intend on staying that way.  I need to explain, John, I do.  That's how this is supposed to go—"

"No, what you need is a glass or two of water and a solid twenty four hour lie in.  It'll most likely he less than that, but one can only hope," John started toward the kitchenette for the sink.

"John, no, I don't _need_ that, this is far more important—"

"No, Sherlock," John turned around and stared down the other man, who was halfway off of the couch, "You are going to sit there and have some water.  Then I am dragging you to my bed where you will sleep even if I have to knock you unconscious.  Because I am not letting you run yourself all the way into the ground right as you've come back.  So, sit your ass down and I will get you your drink.  Clear?"

"John, really—"

"Sherlock I will bloody well kill you, sit down _now_.  I need you nice and healthy so I can properly beat the ever loving shit out of you when you wake up.  So, once again, are we clear?"

Sherlock fell back into his seat and stared at John.  After a moment he nodded.  John gave a tight nod as well.

"Alright then."

He grabbed a glass, and decided to bring some crackers along as well to see if he could be lucky for once. He sat down next to Sherlock on the couch and handed him his glass.  Sherlock accepted it without complaint.

"I'm glad you're back, you know," John said as Sherlock finished off the glass in large gulps.

"I don't think you'll ever understand how glad I am to be back, John," Sherlock replied, giving the crackers a distrusting look instead of looking at John.

"You don't have to eat them."

"Thank god, I don't think I could've managed."

"Come on, let's get you comatose."

John helped Sherlock off the couch and, after Sherlock's legs nearly gave out from underneath him, helped him to the room.  Sherlock fell unceremoniously onto the small twin size and was asleep as soon as John had shifted his feet into the mattress.  He left the room and closed the door behind him.

He sat down on the couch and caught his breath.  There were now light snores coming from the bedroom.  John smiled.  He smiled until it hurt.  He smiled when the tears came and relief came crashing through his system.

And then John giggled quietly.  His cane was propped up on the side of the couch, he'd forgotten it entirely.

 

O o o o o O

Sherlock jerked awake.  There was no transition period between unconscious and conscious for him these past few years.  He had needed to be constantly alert.  He'd been attacked far too many times for his liking, and most of them while he was asleep.

He reached reflexively for his knife, kept under the pillow in most cases.  Somewhere he could easily reach.  His fingers did not immediately grasp worn metal.

He panicked for a moment, jolting upright on the bed.  Where was he? And where was his knife?

Oh, yes. John.

Sherlock's tension melted away.  He nearly fell back onto the bed in relief, but once up, he could not fall back asleep.  He sat up and swung his legs over on the side of the bed.  Bare feet met cold floor.  He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes with the balls of his hands, wincing as he grazed the black eye.  Damn, how long had he been out?

And why was he so cold?  He'd had on a jacket and a shirt, sufficient covering for the room, to be sure.  Looking at his arms Sherlock realized that John had removed his outer shirts, leaving only the thin undershirt that had been underneath.  The cut on his arm had been cleaned and bandaged as well.  How had he even slept through that?

His undershirt was a bit too cold out of the cover of John's duvet.  He grabbed John's robe from the floor and fastened it around his waist.  Far too short, but it didn’t really matter.

He walked into the small living area of John's flat.  It only took one glance to ascertain the man wasn't at home.  There was a note on the table to explain the absence.

 

_Went to get food for later.  Will be back soon._

_If you are not there when I get back I am hunting_

_you down and dragging you back. Make yourself_

_something to drink or watch crap telly.  Just please,_

_wait until I get back before you go running off on_

_any deadly adventures.  Seriously. Stay in the flat._

_-John_

Signing it was really unnecessary, Sherlock would've known John's handwriting anywhere, and who else would leave a note?  Sherlock rooted around in the kitchenette for the coffee and a clean mug; most were dirty.  As the water heated up, Sherlock thought of the note John had left.  Hopefully ‘be back soon’ meant John would be back immediately.

Sherlock sat in the living room for a while.  His coffee slowly disappeared.  He didn’t remember drinking it.  He was lost in his own thoughts when he heard the turn of the key in the lock.

The door opened with more force than necessary.  This was what Sherlock had expected to begin with.

John trudged in, stony faced and fists clenched around his grocery bags.  He passed by Sherlock without looking at him and started putting groceries away in the fridge.  Sherlock said nothing.

"You're having some toast," John said from the kitchen.

"Not hungry."

"I didn't ask," he replied. Sherlock decided not to push his luck.

John came out with some lightly buttered toast and placed it in front of Sherlock on the footstool.  Sherlock picked a slice up and took a tentative bite.  The bread felt thick on his tongue, the texture scratched at his throat as he swallowed.  After the third bite he physically did not want to chew anymore, and could barely bring up the urge to swallow.

"John—"

"One more bite.  I don't want to hear it."

"I'll be sick all over your sofa."

"You’ve only had three bites, Sherlock.  One more will not induce you to vomiting."

Sherlock scowled and downed the last bite with difficulty.  He hadn't eaten in days, and had eaten infrequently for the past few years.  Food was not to be taken lightly.

"Alright.  You've slept, you've eaten. Now it's time for you to explain." John said finishing up his own piece of toast and leaning back on the sofa (away from Sherlock as well).  John stared at him, seemingly through him, and Sherlock was suddenly self-conscious that he decided to wear John's robe.

He missed the familiarity the two of them once shared; how they could sit together reading at night, could share dinner together, could slip on coats or steal socks from the other.  John had been (and still was) the person Sherlock had gotten closest to in his entire life.  To sit there next to the man, and have the memory of that ease sit at odds with the uncomfortable atmosphere, hurt.  He truly had to fix this.  Good thing he had practiced.  He took a deep breath.

"You've already laid your life on the line for me several times.  From the day we met, you accepted the weight of murder on your consciousness and the slight chance that you could have been imprisoned for life.  You took that risk, for me," Sherlock gave John a quick glance.  His expression was unreadable.

"And afterwards, in the coming days, you followed me out on cases.  You chased me down alleyways when you knew there would be guns after us.  You threw yourself against assailants when they could have killed you.  You could have stayed back at the flat as I ran around, half blind to the danger I was usually in, but you didn't."

"What does this have to do—"

"No, John.  Shut up.  What I'm saying is, you have constantly put your life on the line for me.  To keep me safe, you placed yourself in danger as well.  And I appreciated it, very much.  No one has ever fought so hard for me.  And then, the pool.  I had made a colossal mistake, one that nearly ended both our lives and you still threw your life on the line.  You were prepared to get killed by one of the snipers when you grabbed Moriarty.  You wanted me to escape, and were prepared to give your life away. So why should it be surprising that I did so for you in turn?

"On the roof, at the end of Moriarty's game, I was putting my life on the line for you.  My life to protect yours.  As well as Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade.  Moriarty knew where to find my heart, and that weakness was too sweet for him to pass up.  He had guns trained on all three of you, ready to fire if I took too long to jump.  And so, I jumped."

And there was more, there was so much more to explain, but John’s jaw was slack and his fists were balling up.  The man floundered for a bit until he found the right words.

"You committed suicide, in front of my very eyes, to protect me,” he said, enunciating every word carefully.

"Well, faked my suicide, yes.  You needed to believe in the illusion absolutely."

John squeezed his eyes shut.  "It's just a magic trick."

"Yes, I tried to tell you.  I held on to the hope that I could get some message through to you.  I wasn't entirely sure I was going to survive the fall in the first place, so I risked something small."

"Jesus Christ.  Jesus Christ, Sherlock.  You can't just—"

"Admit it.  If you were in my situation, you would have done the exact same thing."

"I could have come with you, you complete bastard.  Look at the state of you.  You can barely keep yourself alive.  You're dehydrated, starving, broken, scratched and beaten.  You survived the jump but you might have—"

"John, if you had disappeared shortly after I jumped that would have been a huge tip off to Moriarty's network.  They might have assumed something was amiss if you also 'died'.  For you to stay behind and believe I was dead was intrinsically important to the plan.  There was a sniper camped across from you for three months, checking to see if you were in contact with me."

John stared at him for a moment and then sighed.  It was his deep, shuddering sigh reserved for the moments when he has accepted the newest thing Sherlock has done to cause trouble.  It sounded beautiful.  John picked up his neglected mug and swished the tea around for a moment.

"So there was nothing—"

“Absolutely nothing."

"Nothing I could have done.  That makes me feel better and worse all at once," he muttered into his tea.

They were silent for a moment, a moment which dragged out long enough that Sherlock risked a few more bites of breakfast if only to give him something to do.  He was adamant not to break the silence first.

"I just.  Sherlock, god.  I have a million and one questions for you, but now really isn't the time.  You still look like hell even after a night’s sleep.  You need a shower, definitely. Perhaps before that I can give you a quick look over, I need to look at your arm again," he rattled off and reached for Sherlock's wrist, twisting it slightly to get a look at the bandage on his arm.

Twisting _his wrist._

_The pressure of a hand encircling his wrist, arm wrenched behind his back, face scraping against gravel.  Warmth of human touch against the cold dark night._

_A quick wrench, a snapping of bone.  Sharp, precise, painfully broken.  Screaming, far too much screaming._

Sherlock jerked his arm away, before he could remind himself that it had been a year since his wrist had been broken, that there was nothing to fear.  The movement had barely jostled John's hand.  But, as it turned out, it was enough.

John quickly removed his hand, looked up and started to observe.  Sherlock tried not to shy away from the gaze.  He failed.

"I-The shower.  I'll go use it now if that is alright with you," he said and got up.  John didn’t stop him.

The shower was scalding hot and divine.  He washed grime and blood out of his hair, picked at old scars and checked for infections in new ones.  He scrubbed every inch of himself and then stood prone in the spray for several minutes.

He had hoped that his travels would not affect him so strongly.  He had hoped that he could slip as seamlessly as he could back into his old life, unperturbed by the troubles he'd gone through.  It turned out not to be the case.  He still dreamt of murders he'd committed, painful injuries he'd sustained, and of the lowest day in all three years, buying low quality cocaine on a back street in Hong Kong.  He had not been able to leave everything behind, to delete what wasn't necessary.  The past three years were etched into his skin: in his cuts, breaks and bruises.

He came back to himself when he realized he was hyperventilating.  He was suffocating in the steam from the shower, he couldn’t breathe, dear god not again.  He burst from the behind the curtain and turned on the fan, letting it suck out the oppressive vapor.  He stood and caught his breath.

_In.  Out.  Dry yourself off.  Put on the clothes John lent you.  Continue on._

He had borrowed a button up shirt (too large), slacks (too short) and pants (one size fits all, apparently) from John's bedroom.  He only managed the pants and trousers before sitting down on the toilet seat and breathing.

He was back. He was safe.  He really needed to stop feeling like everything was going to be ripped out from underneath him at any moment.

He didn’t know how long he sat, loosely gripping John's shirt as he stared straight ahead.  He heard John knock on the door.

"Sherlock, are you decent?"

"Come in," he replied.  John opened the door, gave Sherlock a quick look, then ducked to fiddle around under the sink.  He retrieved a first aid kit.

"You know, you're not supposed to get bandages wet in the shower.  I have to replace that one," he gestured to Sherlock’s left arm.  Sherlock gave him a quick nod. John knelt down next to him.  "I… Sherlock, I'm going to touch your arm now.  I'll do it as gently as I can, but I might need to apply pressure while reapplying the bandage.  Is that alright?" he asked in his best professional voice.

"I am not an infant, please do not treat me like one," Sherlock replied.  The retort sounded weak even in his ears.  When John brushed his hands over him he shifted away from the touch once more because contact with others had been far and few between those last couple of years and it usually ended in _pain_.

"Sorry, I just—"

"I can do it later, if you need, it's alri-"

"No, no.  It needs to be changed. I just need. I don't.  I just need you to—" Sherlock fumbled for words and felt even worse, more embarrassed than shying away from the touch.  "I need contact.  I need to adjust.  Just.  Put your hands on my arm and don’t move."

John looked at him for a moment, then slowly moved his hands up to rest on Sherlock's forearms.  Sherlock fought the urge to jerk.  He closed his eyes and took slow, steady breaths.  These were John's hands on him, hands that he trusted to heal, to kill, and to save.  He let his perception of the warmth shift from danger to comfort.

"Alright."

"Alright?"

"Yes.  Continue, please," Sherlock said.  John gave a tight nod, lips pinched as he avoided asking.  Sherlock wondered how the man would attempt to broach the topic as he worked on his arm.  Perhaps he'd ask about the type of situations Sherlock had been in.  Maybe he'd want quantifiable evidence of all the broken bones.  Maybe he wouldn’t ask.  Sherlock was going to answer anyway.

"The wrist, broken a year ago in Siberia.  I had gotten discovered by Moriarty's chapter there," he explained.  John’s eyes jerked up towards his, then back to his arm.

"Jesus," he whispered.  John held his arm tight as he swabbed the ragged gouge with disinfectant, then carefully began to wrap it with gauze.  Sherlock focused on the sensation of John's hands on his skin and the sense of relief it managed to bring to him once he had adjusted to the feeling.  John shifted back a bit, then stood on obviously aching legs.

"I think that should be set for a bit.  Is there anything else that needs looking at?"

"I may have fractured a rib.  Not sure if it set correctly afterwards," Sherlock replied.  He brushed his finger over the second to last rib on his right.  He still felt a dull, uncomfortable sensation.

"I can take a look at it, but we might need to take you to hospital if it’s off," John muttered.  He gently ran his fingertips against the line of Sherlock's ribs, prodding here and there to search for obvious fractures.  Sherlock's breath stuttered at the sensation. John’s fingers felt cold against Sherlock’s flesh, which was still warm from the shower.  It didn’t bother Sherlock in the slightest.

"Did that hurt?" John asked, pressing gently.  Sherlock had absolutely no idea; he could only concentrate on John's callouses.  "Sherlock, please answer me."

"You're cold," Sherlock answered instead.  John's fingers twitched, but remained on his skin. "It's wonderful."

"I'll warm my hands up for you next time.  Now, pay attention. Does this," he poked at a sensitive spot, "Hurt?"

"It's not pain, it's uncomfortable. Like a bruise that lasts for months," Sherlock muttered.  John hummed in reply.

"We might have to get it looked at.  Alright, anywhere else?"

Sherlock ran a quick diagnostic on his body.  There was a whole range of aches and bruises, but those would settle with time.  He shook his head.

"No antiseptic for those scars you were picking at?"

"Well, yes actually.  That would do nicely."

John nodded and turned to root through his medicine cabinet.  He paused, leaning heavily against the sink to take a few deep breaths.  Sherlock noted the rising tension in his shoulders, the jerky movements of his hands.  He wondered what it meant.  John opened up a bag of cotton balls and poured some antiseptic on them.

"Where first?" he asked, eyes clinically passing over Sherlock's myriad of injuries.

"John, I can—"

"Let me," John interrupted with a bit of force.  Sherlock's eyes snapped up to his.  John was nearly buzzing with energy; or with anger or...Sherlock isn't sure.

"My left calf, thigh and across my back."

"You didn't use soap in these did you?" John asked as he rubbed the disinfectant into the cut on Sherlock's calf.  Sherlock didn’t answer the question, as it had been rhetorical.  The antiseptic would wash out the soap if it was there.  He tried very hard not to wince, even though John was being careful.  John rolled up the leg of his slacks to reach the cut further up.

"When was your last tetanus shot?" he asked.  Not when were you attacked.  Not who attacked you.  John was keeping a clinical distance.  Sherlock fought down the panic in his throat.

"Recent enough.  And the blade was new, it wouldn't have rust," he replied.  Sebastian Moran liked his equipment in the best shape it could be.  He wondered what Mycroft was doing to the man now.

John's eyes hardened as looked at the healing wound.  He was a bit rougher with the disinfection and Sherlock hissed.  John’s head jerked up, then down at the soiled cotton swab he was using.

“Sorry, sorry,” he muttered, finishing the disinfection and applying an adhesive bandage to the spot.  The heat from the shower had dissipated and Sherlock was beginning to feel a chill settling into his bones.

He wanted to say something.  He wanted to erase the hard edge that had arisen in the set of John's shoulders and in the glint of his eyes.  He once could read John like a book, deducing his actions had been as easy as breathing.  He sometimes had used John to ground himself, because John was a known variable.  Now, now Sherlock could barely read the set of John's lips.  Or maybe he didn’t want to.  Because the expression on John's face was the one he had when he was rushing through something to be done with it; to never have to see the annoying thing again.

"Put your shirt on, you're going to catch cold," John reprimanded.  Sherlock did so, taking a moment to do up the buttons.  His fingers only slipped twice.

He looked up and into John's eyes.  John looked away first.

“John, what is—”

“For a moment, just, stay quiet.  I can’t- I need you to be quiet,” he said. His breathing was ragged, his hands were stock-still.  He was angry, furious even, and Sherlock found himself fighting through a haze of confusion because he didn’t know _why_.  Was John’s anger finally catching up to him?  In the millions of scenarios he imagined of their reunion, half of them involved John punching him, or throwing him out of the flat.  He had thought things had taken a more favorable turn, but perhaps John had reached his breaking point.  Perhaps he was done with mending Sherlock up.  He stayed silent as John pinched the bridge of his nose, attempting to calm his breathing.

“The- the ones who did this to you.  Are they dead?”

Sherlock tried to remember all those who managed to hurt him, at least the ones which left lasting damage.  “Most of them.  If they aren’t dead, they are incarcerated.”  Did John want to know if he had killed them?  Because some he had; he had ripped the throat out of a man on one occasion, and stomped another’s face in until his nose was in shatters and his eyes were punctured.

“Jesus.  Shit, shit Jesus!” he shouted, causing Sherlock to jump.  He grew even more concerned when John let himself slide down to the tiled floor.  “You’re telling me they aren’t all dead, you couldn’t have just lied and said the fucking bastards were—” he cut himself off and took a few more deep breaths.  Sherlock sat rigid; he’d never seen John so agitated.

“John,” he whispered, uncertain.  The man looked up at him and the expression on his face- Sherlock finally understood John’s anger.

“If I had been there, god, if I had the man who did that to your wrist, or, Jesus your leg, in my hands- I’d fucking tear him to pieces.  What they _did_ to you, Sherlock,” his voice wavered as he tried not to yell once more, “You’ve never- I mean, I don’t think… You never were injured this badly before.  And shit, you were alone this whole time and I could have been helping you, fuck what you had to say about tipping off Moriarty’s network.  I should have been there,” he said.

Sherlock found he was shaking, “John, I couldn’t have brought you—”

“I know.  I know that, I do.  It doesn’t make me stop wishing I could have,” John said.  His head tilted back and he rested it against the wall.  Sherlock watched as he took a deep breath in through his nose.  “Just, trying to dial back three years’ worth of bloodlust all at once.  It’s a bit overwhelming.”

Sherlock was thankful that John’s eyes were closed, as his shaking had intensified.  John wanted to murder those who had harmed him, who left scars upon his skin in John’s absence.  The knowledge that John still cared so deeply was intoxicating; it was devastating.  The fear he had of John’s rejection was flushed out of his system, replaced with a heady relief.

 _I kept London safe for you_ , he wanted to say.   _There wouldn't have been a reason to return if you weren't here._ Sherlock did not say these things.  Instead he attempted to keep his hands from shaking any more than they already were.

“Perhaps Mycroft will let you interrogate one that he has in custody,” he said instead.  He couldn’t keep the grin off his face at the idea.  John sighed.

“Do you think he would?” he asked, lolling his head to look up at Sherlock.  He froze as he saw the expression on Sherlock’s face.  Sherlock sobered up, not certain how much affection he’d let show.  John blinked, then smiled as well.  “Come here,” he said, patting the floor next to him.

Sherlock didn’t question the request as he slid off the toilet and onto the chilled tiles.  He leant up against the wall next to John, crammed between the door and the man.  John leaned his head against Sherlock’s shoulder.

“You need to know that I am still very angry with you.  That probably isn’t going to go away for a very long time,” he muttered, sounding exhausted.

Sherlock nodded, “I understand that.”

“I might yell at you, or avoid you for days on end just to spite you, or I might not.  Not sure yet.  You lead me to believe you were dead.  I mourned for you, Sherlock, that isn’t going to go away overnight.”

“I would say I’m sorry, but that would imply I would have done anything differently,” he replied.  John chuckled softly.

“You’re an arse, you really are.  And, I’m glad that you’re alive,” he clapped a hand Sherlock’s knee while he straightened up.  Sherlock hid his resulting grin behind a cough.  “Now, I don’t know about you, but I am in need of a very stiff drink, and you need a jacket or something before you shiver yourself to death,” he said as he stood.  He offered his hand to Sherlock and hoisted him off the floor.

“I think some brandy might help me with the chill,” Sherlock replied.  John snorted.

“We’ll see about that.”

As John fixed the two of them a drink, Sherlock wrapped himself once more in John’s robe.  He closed his eyes and listened to the sound of glasses clinking and liquid pouring.  He willed himself to let go of any residual tension.

He was back.


End file.
